CHAPTER TEN - SIMONE IN THE SHADOWS

Sometimes a lad with too much ego might simply go too far....

The street seemed to throb. Underfoot, in the buildings that lined it, in the very air. The lone young woman made her way purposefully along it, smiling, almost laughing aloud to herself.

The rhythm was infectious. At least Simone thought it was.

The doorman smiled at her, winked, muttered something about “after the ball” with a lascivious grin, and she grinned back at him before whispering in your dreams under her breath.

She was out for a night of fun, and having the shadow of a fat doorman with the antisocial fragrance of unwashed armpits encircling him pounding away at her beautiful flesh after dark wasn't her idea of fun.

Though maybe, if all else fails, she thought.

The place was almost empty. It always was early on. After all, it was called a night club and it wasn't night yet. Not properly.

She bought herself a drink at the bar " it was the happy hour when drinks are half price. It was a ruse supposed to draw people in early, though on this occasion it wasn't working. As she had observed, the place was almost empty.

“Fetch a friend and the next one's on the house,” grinned the barman as if he were reciting a menu.

She smiled cheekily back. He knew she wouldn't fetch anyone and so did she, though once in a blue moon some did.

She found a seat, which later would be an impossibility because seats were few and far between and open spaces everything. Seating took up space that standing customers might appreciate in order to squeeze through the door, though as she'd observed they had yet to arrive.

She hoped they had yet to arrive.

The music was loud enough, though, and its rhythm insistent. It ate into her brain like dance music can. It was meaningless. No lyrics and very little melody, but glorious none-the-less.

This'll show that Paula b***h, she thought, what I'm going to do tonight, and no doubt it would if that Paula b***h had seen her. But she wasn't there.

Simone wasn't wearing very much. She had dispensed with a bra because she knew that her breasts were ample and beautifully firm enough to tease any lad who wasn't gay and quite a few who were, so she wore a top that threatened to let them fall out one at the time - yet they never did. Her skirt was a pelmet, loose, and swirly, it would have been flowing had there been enough material to flow. Even when she stood up you could see her thong. Most of it. It winked at you as you walked by. It promised more than it could deliver, more than any scrap of cloth could hope to deliver. And behind was her bottom, her beautiful bottom...

And she felt happy with herself.

Slowly, the place filled up. Not that it was ever going to fill right up. Not tonight, not when there was a promise of murder in the air.

“Wanna drink?” shouted a youth.

How old was he? Fourteen pretending to be eighteen or thirty pretending to be fourteen pretending to be eighteen? “Yeah,” she replied, blinking.

She knew she looked good blinking. She'd practised in front of the mirror at home. It was quite a turn-on, those delicious long lashes batting across her lovely eyes.

“What is it?” bawled the youth.

He's spotty she thought, maybe fourteen going on eighteen...

“Vodka,” she blinked, “straight and double.”

What am I doing? I've never had a double vodka before, and I've never drunk it straight.. but there's always a first time!

The youth returned. He reeked of cheap deodorant, the sort that wouldn't linger for long but would release the delights of his own natural oils within the hour.

“What you doing later?” asked the lad.

She took a sip of her double vodka and almost choked.

“I dunno,” she gasped.

“Too strong for you?” he grinned, indicating the vodka.

She shook her head and scowled. “Hay fever”, she replied, lying of course.

“So what you doing later?” he repeated.

“Might be seeing my mates. Paula and David. Good mates they are,” she replied, something inside her unearthing a truth she'd never seen before. Maybe it was the vodka or maybe it was the disgrace of being so close to a spotty youth who didn't need to shave.

And who stank of cheap deodorant.

“They up for a bit of fun?” he asked. “They up for party time, foursome, you know what I mean?”

She didn't know what he meant, and her face showed it.

“A couple of lines and we'll be up for anything!” he cackled.

She'd heard of lines. Lines of coke. Bad stuff. She might have been a selfish b***h, but she looked after her body and lines of coke didn't do that.

But she didn't know what to say.

“I'll screw you like you've never been screwed before,” continued the youth, lasciviously. He was treading on dangerous ground but lacked either the sense or experience to know it.

“I've got a whopper in my pants,” he continued. “You wanna get a fistful of it?”

Simone, suddenly, wasn't interested in what any lad kept in his pants.

“Get away!” she shouted, her voice suddenly loud in a club that was still short of being full by a good fifty percent.

“What's got into you, b***h?” cracked the youth, “we're only having fun, words, games, that's all, and I bought you a double, I did, and that paid for something!”

Nobody buys me with alcohol, she thought, I'm not for sale that way!

The youth didn't know that. He had no idea, and when he lunged towards her in the shadows, when his face cracked with lechery and his right hand eased into her bra-less top and squeezed her breast, he had no idea that she was fumbling in her bag.

And he could never have suspected that she brought out a nail-file, metal, serrated, and as he squeezed her ample n****e with something unrelated to affection, the shock as she thrust it, with all the strength given her by Sunday morning sport, between his ribs, was more than he could take.

Accurately, and without really meaning it, she killed him.

To death!